


How It All Started

by Watermelonsmellinfellon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Domestic Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Gen, Inspired By Tumblr, Lethal Injection, Marriage, Past, Sad, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock is helpful, mrs hudson's past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watermelonsmellinfellon/pseuds/Watermelonsmellinfellon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows a lot of people. But how did he meet them? Mrs Hudson, Angelo, Sebastian, and many more. This is the possible meetings between Sherlock Holmes and the people in his life. Meetings that were never touched upon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How It All Started

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 is Mrs. Hudson.
> 
> We know that the only times Sherlock has ever become extremely angry and yelled or violently assaulted someone in a fit of rage, was when Mrs Hudson was attacked or threatened. So why does Sherlock care so much about her? We know he helped her husband get the lethal injection. We know said husband ran a drug cartel and cheated on her multiple times, and killed two people. We know she was an exotic dancer. She's a reformed alcoholic and has tried marijuana before. Her name is Martha Louise Hudson née Sissons and she has a sister.
> 
> This is my take on their meeting. BTW, Mrs. Hudson is 55 when she meets John in this fic. Just because Una Stubbs is 78(and looks damn young too) doesn't mean I'm making Mrs Hudson that old.

**A/N: Hello, people!**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

**I have no beta.**

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* * *

 

Martha Louise Hudson née Sissons walked. She walked because there was just so much on her mind and she couldn't bear to be idle when her poor mind was working so quickly.

Francis. Francis was in deep.

Martha had been in deep in her youth. When she was young, she did have the intelligence that others had. She had to play to her strengths and for the time period, her strengths lie in the body.

Dancing was something she was good at.

Money didn't just appear, she had to live somehow. Her sister Mary had offered to get her a job with a friend of hers, but Martha knew nothing about children or how to care for them. So it was exotic dancing instead.

Not that she didn't like it or anything. It was just, lacking a little.

And then a fellow dancer offered her a drink one night and that was when the addiction began. Martha knew all about addiction. Alcohol was probably her most guilty pleasure. She liked everything.

For five years, she danced and drank. Earning money and spending it immediately.

She had needed help.

Mary forced her to go and get some.

Rehabilitation from drinking was a journey. Ten years of struggling. Of failing so many times. Of wanting to just give up forever and not care about the consequences. Of finding the will to try again.

By her thirty-fifth birthday, she was clean. She was also only allowed to have alcohol on special occasions, which Mary was kind enough to mark down for her to remember and reference when she wasn't sure.

A few months later, she met Francis Hudson. He was charming and ten years older than she was, wealthy, and he seemed genuinely interested in her. He also liked her dancing. She agreed to marry him after a few months of dating. At the time, the change in her life was nice. Things were looking up.

She continued to dance, for a while, but Francis soon didn't want her to dance for anyone but him. Feeling like he'd had a point, she conceded to quitting her fifteen year old job, thinking that maybe as a married woman, she shouldn't be doing things like that any longer.

Over the next five years, their relationship was nice. Good dates, nice clothes, snuggles. Martha was the happiest she'd been. But she missed dancing.

And then there was Francis.

Francis worked often. He was very wealthy and had a business of his own. Would shut himself up in his study for hours and hours. He frequently traveled to the United States, where he met with business partners he worked with. When she had asked what he did for a living, he simply said 'industrial agriculture'. At the time, she'd simply went along with it, not questioning him after.

By their fifth year of marriage, they still hadn't had a child. Martha was now forty year old and it was difficult for women that old to have children without putting themselves in danger. She may have complained one too many times, because that was the first time Francis ever hit her.

He'd apologized right afterward, frantically trying to get ice from the fridge he didn't even know how to operate because he was never home. She had forgiven him. Accidents happen, right?

But these accidents were repeated and his apologies soon became half-arsed at best, until he was goading and hurting her all the time.

She took this treatment for a year, before getting up the courage to phone Scotland Yard, but Francis has the landline being watched and she was unable to place the call in time. Francis was there. Francis was angry. And Martha learned just how dark of a man he was.

He threatened Mary. Her dear Mary. The only family that she had left. Threatened to hurt her.

Martha was quiet.

She took the verbal abuse without argument.

She learned to shut herself off when his hands raised higher than waist level.

She learned how to cover the bruises.

She could could learn to live with it. He was ten years older than her, he'd most likely die first. She just had to wait it out.

Five more years.

Now she was forty-five and from the last few years, she was extremely fortunate to see the number pass this year.

And what had led her to forgoing the car in order to go for a walk? The post.

She'd been baking a pie, trying out the skills she felt she should learn just in case. It was cooling when she went to fetch the post, finding two bills and a package to her husband, from some store whose name was in French. Curious, she had opened it, finding proof that her husband had been cheating on her. With how many people, she didn't know. But there was a picture of him, sitting in a club, much like the one she used to dance in. He was surrounded by naked women, allowing them to touch him. It was recent, judging by his greying hair and the collared shirt he had recently purchased.

So not only was he an abusive bastard but he was an adulterer as well. Why wasn't she surprised?

So she walked. Walked away from the manor. Walked for almost a mile, thinking over how she'd prove that he was such a horrible person. He had money. He could shut people up quickly. She didn't even know how to go about this.

With a sigh, she turned the corner of a large brick building, nearly falling over something along the way.

She was caught by the forearm and she barely withheld a wince. Francis had grabbed her there the night before he left for his trip to America.

The young man, at least twenty years old maybe, who had caught her was very tall. Martha was on two inches over five feet. But this young man was at the very least, six feet. His skin was pale, though his face was sweating profusely. His eyes were bloodshot. His curly hair was messy, but not in a tamed way. There was even a leaf sticking out somewhere. His clothing was accompanied by a baggy, blue jumper that was stained, blue jogging trousers, and ripped up trainers.

His eyes, were an unusual mix of green, blue, and gold. And he had a cupid's bow mouth. If he wasn't so unkempt, she was certain he'd be very attractive with his cheekbones so high and imposing.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked, noting how disoriented he looked.

"What? Me? Fine! I'm totally fine! Just fine!"

His dilated eyes kept moving back and forth really quickly. His language was slightly slurred. He sounded a bit panicked. He was also swaying. She couldn't smell alcohol on him, so he hadn't been drinking. But he was acting just like she had when she had used marijuana that one time.

_Oh_.

He was an addict. Not of alcohol, but that didn't matter.

The young man sniffed a few times, stepping away from her, his movements accompanied by another sway.

"Are you sure you're fine?"

His eyes snapped to her. "You've already realized that I'm an addict," he said dryly. "Yes, you've a history with addiction, though not like I do. You understand what it's like. I'm fine mentally. It makes me better. It makes my brain functionality rise, which is the most important. Everything else is transport."

She was blown away by his easy deduction of her past experience with addiction. His assertions that he was mentally fine was all well and good, but he seemed to be forgetting something.

"Dear, what about physically and emotionally? How are you in regards to them?"

He simply stared.

Making up her mind and deciding that this young man needed more help than she did at present, she grabbed his long fingered hand and turned around, hailing a cab.

"You need food, a shower, some sleep. I'm not saying stop what you're doing, as I know it can be hard and if you don't want to stop, then I won't make you. But you must take care of yourself, dear."

The cabbie didn't ask questions as she gave him the address. She proceeded to pull a small pack of tissues from her handbag and started wiping down the young man's sweaty face. Said young man was sitting rigidly, eyeing her like she was some maniac.

Once at the manor, which was not a home to her. Hadn't been in years actually. Once there, she guided him to the kitchen.

"You need food first and foremost. What kind of takeaway do you prefer?"

She had him sit at the island counter and began setting the water to boil for some tea.

"You don't even know my name."

"Then tell me and I'll know it."

He blinked. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Martha Hudson, dear. Which takeaway do you favor? I get Indian, Chinese, and Thai on a regular basis."

"Chinese. Anything with white rice and shrimp."

She nodded, pouring the hot water into a cup. "Black or Herbal?" she asked.

"Black, please. No sweetener."

She passed the cup over, placing a tea bag inside.

After ordering the food, making sure she simply had enough that she would normally eat because Francis still had the phone watched, she began to plan.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

She believed him. But the way he said it conveyed that he didn't like it.

"Did you run away?"

His face dropped a bit and he called her with a look, "How old do you think I am?"

"Nineteen?"

He laughed, "I've finished university already and I'm twenty-three, Mrs. Hudson."

"Then why are you wandering London's streets looking like a vagabond?"

Sherlock sighed. "To spite my brother. Admittedly, it's fun annoying him and I've been avoiding him for a while. I have a history of out maneuvering the CCTV."

Martha blanched. "What?"

Sherlock waved off her worry. "My brother is the British Government and stalks me through the CCTV. Nothing important there."

The British Government?

"If that's the case, does he even know about-"

"Yes. But nothing he says will make me stop. Of course he as the executor of my trust fund, has refused me access to it until I meet the requirements. A stable job, drug free lifestyle, and a flat of my own. On a small level I know he's correct but I would never tell him that, so I've been ignoring him."

Martha's head was spinning. She was dealing with a twenty-three year old man, who had already finished his time in university. Who had a brother complex judging from how he spoke of said brother. Who had a trust fund waiting for him, but chose not to work for it. While she understood the addiction part making it hard, living on the streets didn't seem like fun.

She sighed.

She glanced at the clock and then at the calendar. Could she keep the young man here while Francis came back? He was a week away at least.

"You don't have to help me. Should your wretch of a husband find out about this, your health will be compromised."

She started, turning to him in shock.

He was simply staring at her, as if he hadn't just said something he shouldn't have known.

"How?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Unhappily married for ten years. Your ring is that old and hasn't been cleaned once. That, the contents of that box over there, and the fact that you have at least four times the amount of concealer applied to your left cheek compared to your right, shows that you are married to a serial adulterer, who inflicts frequent domestic violence upon your person.

However you seem to be a helpful and sensible person, why stay with such a scoundrel? Well, he has wealth and his status on his side, many wouldn't believe you as you came from low standing. He could ruin your reputation and life. But maybe that isn't something to bother you. Maybe he threatened you or someone you know and that is why you keep silent.

Then there's the fact that he's dealing illegal substances to people and even growing some very illegal plants on your property. Within your house even."

"WHAT?!"

Sherlock stood and sniffed loudly. "I would know these plants anywhere. As a drug addict and a chemist, I know my way around plants. This house reeks of Cannabis."

He began walking toward the foyer and up the flight of stairs, Martha following immediately.

"It's stronger the further and higher we get."

He led her up to the third floor and all the way down the corridor, into hers and Francis' bedroom. Though a bit put off that he just walked in, she wanted to know what he was getting at.

Sherlock was staring at the door leading to Francis' closet. He and Martha had separate closets because they had too much for only one.

Sherlock slipped inside the closet, turning on the light. She followed, seeing him study the last wardrobe on the other side of the small room. He opened the door and reached inside, knocking on the wooden back a few times.

She could hear the difference in the knocking after the fourth knock.

Sherlock gave a laugh and pulled away, revealing a large hole and beyond it… was a room filled with green plants.

Sherlock crawled inside and Martha thanked God that she was so small.

It was a large hexagonal room, covered in large plants. She recognized the Cannabis leaf, but none of the others.

"Your husband has been very naughty," Sherlock commented, looking at something.

She accepted the clipboard and gasped. He  _was_ a dealer! His whole 'industrial agriculture' was in dealing illegal substances! And he frequently went to Florida in order to sell it. That was why he was so wealthy.

"Oh, dear God."

Sherlock was watching her in silence, He looked to be contemplating something.

Pachelbel's Canon rang through the manor suddenly. That was the bell that Francis had chosen.

"Must be the takeaway. Come, we should eat and then… we'll go from there. And my marriage has been unhappy for only five years, dear."

"There's always something."

After their meal, which had been shared in silence, Sherlock asked, "What is your plan?"

"I can't do anything. He can easily turn that on me. I can't call anyone, because the phone has been watched for years. He'd know the moment I didn't call for takeaway."

Sherlock sipped his second cup of tea.

"What would you like to do?"

"Besides going back to my dancing?" she smiled. "I'd like to live in the middle of London. A nice flat of my own, where I can do the things I like without fearing for my safety. Actually have some friends. Talk to my sister again."

Sherlock nodded. "I know a Detective Inspector. Sometimes, when I'm not high, he lets me help him with cases."

"What?"

"I'm a Consulting Detective. I invented the job. When the police are out of their depth, which is always might I add, they consult me. Lestrade is the least annoying person in the Yard. He knows to take me seriously. He's drug busted me several times before, but he is tolerable over it. He and Mycroft speak often regarding my health. I could possibly get him and Mycroft to help."

Martha's mouth dropped a little. "But why, dear?"

"Many reasons, but I think not telling me to give up my addiction will suffice. And just so you know, I'm on withdrawal. It's terrible. My mind is all over the place, I've had nothing stimulating for a while, and overall really need mental stimulation, so I've been secretly following Mycroft's orders so that Lestrade will let me help on cases again."

"How would you contact them?"

"Walk in front of the nearest CCTV, Mycroft will see and send someone."

Sherlock was making to get up, but Martha halted him. "Shower first! Present yourself as someone to be taken seriously, dear! Come!"

She showed him to one of the guest bedrooms. "The bathroom in through there. Take your time. What size are you?"

He mumbled something and she nodded. "Towels are in the cabinet."

Francis bought Armani suits like there weren't enough in the world. Sherlock was maybe an inch shorter than Francis. Luckily he was the same size though. Grabbing the black suit that was recently purchased, as well as a new plum colored, collard shirt, she moved past the ties. Sherlock didn't seem the type. Shoes. Sherlock was a size bigger than Francis, but he'd probably not mind the squeeze.

No. Not at all.

She set the clothes on the bed in the room she'd left Sherlock in, going back to grab Francis' new Belstaff Milford coat.

A while later, Sherlock Holmes stepped into the kitchen, looking much different than before. His skin was milky and didn't look unhealthy. His eyes were bright and no longer red or glassy. His curls were more maintained despite still be all over the place. He cut a striking figure in the suit as well.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh dear, if you're going to help me by going to your brother whom you obviously don't get on with, I can do something to help."

Sherlock looked away, before nodding. "I'll return within the hour. Do not let anyone in."

* * *

 

Sherlock rushed off in search of the nearest CCTV.

How he despised is when he heard stories of domestic violence. Your partner was supposedly the person you should trust. Destroying that trust so terribly… Sherlock hated it. He was also raised not to hit women and while he knew that a lot of women could defend themselves just fine, it was the lesson he learned. Do not lay your hands on a woman. Mummy had been adamant about that. Sherlock merely changed the lesson to don't hit your significant other. And what angered him most was when the abused party was like Mrs. Hudson. Kind, gentle, helpful, and older meaning fragile.

He'd make sure this bastard never saw daylight again.

Sherlock made sure to stand very openly in the middle of the four way intersection. Mere moments later, a black vehicle rolled up and he slipped in with ease, having done it before.

"Hello, little brother. I do hope you haven't done anything I need to cover up."

"I need to see Lestrade."

"Are you sure you're clean?" Mycroft snipped.

"Been in withdrawal for a month and it's been terrible. See you mistake me, Mycroft. You think I get pleasure from drugs? No. I gain mental clarity and magnified deductive reasoning. I am more efficient that way."

Mycroft merely cocked a brow. "Why do you need the Detective Inspector?"

"Remember that time out in Sussex?"

Mycroft's eyes rolled, "Who could forget?"

"Remember the man I had deduced was being abusive to his wife?"

"Yes, you were rather emotionally distraught over that one."

"Similar problem, except the husband is also a serial adulterer and he's growing illegal plants, Cannabis being one of them, in their manor and crossing the Atlantic to sell them in Florida. I figured Lestrade likes drug busts and he'd be happy to help."

There was silence in the car.

"Why are you going to help this woman?" he asked finally.

"Because she insisted upon helping me and instead of so many others who immediately berate me for drug abuse, she recognized the signs and inquired after my health. Not once did she tell me to stop using. Also I really despise domestic violence."

"Fine. To Scotland Yard!" Mycroft called to the driver.

"About these illegal substances, how much would you say there is and how much is he making off it all?"

Sherlock smirked. His plan was coming together perfectly.

"His secret room is situated behind his wardrobe in his walk in closet that is filled with Armani, Kiton, and Westwood bespoke suits. The wife wears Dior, Gucci, and Versace. A four story manor, phone in every room. A lot of foreign and expensive cars in the back. Different colors of the Belstaff Milford I'm wearing, several Versace, and Fendi. I could go on. And the room itself, well... your kitchen is smaller."

"Damn."

"Indeed."

"Well this is an international issue. I have to make some calls."

Sherlock stepped from the car, walking with surety into New Scotland Yard.

He ignored the blatant staring of the people on the first floor, making his way to the lift and up to Lestrade's floor.

When the man saw him coming, he did a very obvious double take. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, obviously. Lestrade, you like drug busts, correct?"

"Not my division, but I do them anyway."

"And you don't like domestic violence, correct?"

"No."

"Or adulterers?"

"No. Where are you going with this?"

"Just listen. I nearly bowled over and older woman today, who immediately noticed that I needed a little help. She offered it. Forced me to eat and shower as well. Unfortunately, she's being abused, cheated on, and she lives in a house that reeks of Cannabis. Come to find out that the husband has a secret room where he grows things and then takes them to America to sell them. Mycroft is already aware and looking into it."

Lestrade stared for a moment.

"Are you saying you're going to _help_ this woman?"

"Yes."

"Of your own free will?"

"Yes. I don't like domestic violence. One of the things I will not allow to continue. And she was very… mummy like, without the nagging."

"Alright, you know the address?"

"Obviously."

* * *

 

Martha was completely overwhelmed when the manor was surrounded by policemen. And Sherlock was in the middle of it all, talking at such a rapid pace that she couldn't understand him.

Mycroft Holmes, whom she learned was Sherlock's older brother, was talking on his mobile, looking around with obvious disdain.

The amount of illegal substances being grown in her own house, was enough to amaze even the workers from New Scotland Yard. There was so much of it. And the dogs kept growling at different walls, where other secret rooms were being revealed.

She was pulled aside by Sherlock and another man, who both began to ask questions that she did her best to answer.

Sherlock verified everything she said as the truth. He apparently knew how to tell if someone was lying. The man with him took his word for it.

She admitted to the abuse. Admitted to Mary being in danger if she ever said anything. Admitted to hating her life at present.

She never thought this would happen, but she was glad.

* * *

 

The trip to America was done with haste. Mycroft even joined. He, who pulled a lot of strings, managed to gain possession of all of Francis Hudson's belongings and was currently working to get it all in Mrs. Hudson's ownership.

Francis Hudson left his order sheet behind, allowing them to find him easily.

The arrest hadn't gone as planned.

Francis Hudson would not come quietly. He shot two American officers - killing them - and injured four others before he was taken down. Sherlock deduced everything about him on the spot.

Mrs. Hudson, after getting an expedited passport, stuck closely to Sherlock the entire time. Especially when Francis aimed biting vitriol her way. The man was a fool.

The plan had been, send her in with several undercover cops with guns pointed on the target. The moment he saw her, he began to curse at and insult her. And when he raised a hand to her, Sherlock  _moved_.

"You. Will. Never. Touch. Her. Again."

Sherlock has caught the hand that moved to slap her. And that was when he drew the gun. The cops proceeded to open fire and it was a mess.

Mrs. Hudson suffered no injury, though Sherlock was grazed by a bullet.

The downed man was stripped of all weapons and clothing. And Sherlock took it a step further, deducing him to pieces.

The overall result from the trial, was the death sentence.

And there, in Miami Florida, Francis Hudson was given a lethal injection two weeks later.

* * *

 

Martha sold everything, putting all of the money away.

She then bought a small cafe and the flats above it, right in the heart of London.

Over the next ten years, Sherlock made sure to visit and every time, Martha reminded him that should he need a flat, she had three others and she'd lower the price for him. But she had one stipulation. Sherlock had to have a flatmate.

He could use some friends that weren't part of the police.

He had already partially moved in and his quest for a flatmate was a journey and a half. 

When Martha opened the door late in the afternoon in May of 2010, she found Sherlock standing there, with a man.

This had happened before, but she was insulted at how quickly people left. There was nothing wrong with her Sherlock. He was so helpful in keeping her from alcohol, which she returned the favor by making sure that he stayed on nicotine and not drugs.

But this one, she could tell that he'd stay. And Sherlock was smiling! And being nice! Sherlock liked him. And the man - John - seemed interested in Sherlock!

"There's another bedroom upstairs if you'd be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh don't worry. There's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones!"

Sherlock finally had a boyfriend!

They were perfect for each other!

Her boys!

* * *

 

**A/N: Done!**

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**Author's Note:**

> How was it?


End file.
